Lola Offline Read online

  www.orionchildrensbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  By the Same Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Copyright

  If you liked this, you’ll love…

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  Chapter One

  If you ever find yourself internationally notorious, and about to go on the run, I highly recommend not having a name like Delilah Hoover.

  I’ve never liked my name, obviously. The whole sucking thing; enough said. But the worst thing is its findability. Before the story broke, there were about 350,000 search results for Delilah Hoover, and most of them related to vacuum cleaners. (Disclaimer: other brands are available). Now there are over three million. And they’re all about me.

  For a few weeks, I was famous. I was trending on Twitter. There were blog posts about me, newspaper articles even. But the worst thing of all was the comments. I only saw a couple before Mum and Dad took my phone and laptop away, but that was more than enough. Everyone knew my name. And it really sucked.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this, love?’ said Mum.

  I looked up from trying to squash my furry monster-paw slippers into my suitcase. ‘What – go to Paris? Of course I’m sure! And we agreed it!’ Fear bubbled in my stomach. ‘You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

  We’d already discussed this, weeks ago, at a two-hour ‘family summit’ over pizza. Motion for discussion: Should Delilah be allowed to transfer to an international school in Paris? Mum and Dad were against the motion. My little brother Lenny was for it, but that was because he was heartless and also loved change – any change. In the end they said it was my decision. Which is what people say when they think you’re making a terrible mistake.

  ‘I know we agreed it,’ said Mum. ‘But it seems so drastic. I’m sure everything here will blow over …’

  I said nothing, because we both knew that wasn’t true. The university had publicly said they wouldn’t be giving me a place. I was still afraid to go back online. No blowing-over from where I sat; not even a little breeze.

  ‘But what about your friends? I’m sure they’ll miss you …’

  I was even less sure about that. Things had been weird with them since the whole thing happened, even Ellie. She said she didn’t care about it – they all did: her, Jules and Nisha. But they’d also been to a winter festival without telling me. Where, according to Instagram, they all got matching daisy face paint and Jules had met a boy. Big deal.

  ‘I’m positive,’ I said, kneeling on my suitcase to try and make it close. For someone with no clothes, I’d found it very hard to pack. Of course I had clothes, I just didn’t like any of them. They all felt like the discarded snake-skins of my past selves, as I’d written pretentiously in my diary the night before. There were the hideous mistakes, like my long black skirt and white lace blouse from when I wanted to look like a Victorian governess; or the Great Catsby sweater I tracked down online after seeing Taylor Swift wear it. I wasn’t sure if any of my clothes were really me. But then I didn’t want to be me any more, so maybe that was a good thing.

  ‘Stop – let me help you.’ Mum leaned forward easily from her cross-legged position, and held the case down while I zipped it. She’d always been into yoga, but she started doing it even more when everything kicked off – and reading inspirational books, and even meditating. If she became a Buddhist monk, it would all be my fault.

  ‘Think how good it will be for my French,’ I said, to cheer her up. ‘And I might pick up other languages. I might become fluent in Tagalog!’

  ‘Tagalog? That’s not a real language, is it?’

  ‘Yes! It’s what they speak in the Philippines.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Languages were my thing: I collected phrases from other languages the way other people collected selfie likes. So far I could speak French, Spanish and Mandarin (though my Mandarin was shaky) plus smatterings of lots more. I’d even made up my own language, Delilish. So far, Lenny and I were the only native speakers, though Ellie had picked up some basics.

  ‘I suppose you will be able to improve your French,’ said Mum, obviously trying to talk herself into it. ‘And what an amazing experience – living in Paris!’

  This was much more like the Mum I knew. She couldn’t help being terminally positive; it was a professional hazard, since she worked in PR where everything was fab, amazing or worst-case scenario, ‘absolutely fine’.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said breezily, to hide the fact that I was terrified. ‘And I’ll be back for Easter. It’s not that long.’

  ‘Don’t worry! Take as long as you need.’ It was Lenny, barrelling in without knocking as usual. Taking out a tape measure, he started measuring my bedroom walls.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I said.

  ‘I’m checking my stuff will fit in here. Mum said I could, didn’t you Mum?’

  ‘I said maybe. If your sister agrees. His room is really small,’ Mum said to me, apologetically. ‘And when he’s got all his gaming friends over—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t change too much,’ Lenny said. ‘I really like what you’ve done with it. Just think it needs more of a man’s touch.’

  My impulse was to pick him up by the scruff of his hoody and ping him out of my room, but I was trying to be less impulsive. Since that was what got
me into trouble in the first place.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Have it. Just clear out when I come home, and don’t use my sheets.’

  Lenny’s mouth dropped into a startled O. With a pang, I realised he hadn’t just wanted to get under my skin; he’d wanted me to react to him. Maybe it was his weird way of showing he would miss me.

  ‘Seriously, Len,’ I said. ‘Be my guest.’ I gave him a hug, normally a guaranteed way of getting rid of him. Instead he started doing parkour around my room, until Mum shooed him out. That was typical Lenny; he recovered quickly. At least I didn’t have to worry about him.

  ‘Hey!’ Dad said, appearing in the doorway. ‘So … you’re doing your packing.’

  ‘Yep.’ I nodded, mirroring his awkward smile.

  ‘Great.’

  Most of my chats with Dad in the past few months had followed this pattern.

  ‘So … you’re having your breakfast.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Great.’

  Awkward smiles. Silence.

  To try and spice things up, I added, ‘I don’t think it will be that cold in Paris, but I’m not sure.’

  He took out his phone, relieved to have a distraction. ‘Siri! Check weather in Paris in February.’

  Dad was so devoted to Siri, I was surprised he hadn’t included her in our family conference. He obviously found her much easier to talk to than me.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get that,’ said Siri.

  ‘Siri!’ Dad barked. ‘Check! Weather! In Paris!’

  ‘OK. Checking for you now,’ said Siri.

  ‘Shouldn’t you say please?’ said Mum.

  ‘Why on earth would I say please? It’s a robot.’

  ‘Shh!’ said Mum. ‘She’ll hear you.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Mum. Dad. I’ve decided something else.’

  They both turned to me, with the identical worried expressions that had become so familiar.

  ‘I’m changing my name. To Lola.’

  ‘But why—’ Mum said, before closing her mouth. She knew why.

  ‘Are you sure the school will let you change your name?’ Dad said.

  ‘You saw the form they sent – child’s name, child prefers to be known as. Lola is sort of a nickname for Delilah. And I can use your surname,’ I added, to Mum.

  ‘Lola Maxwell – not bad,’ said Dad.

  ‘Lola is awful! It sounds like a stripper,’ said Mum. Unlike Delilah? I thought. ‘Surely we can think of something better.’ Now she and Dad both had their phones out.

  ‘Siri! Suggestions for girls’ names!’

  ‘OK. Checking for you now.’

  Dad looked up. ‘What about your middle name?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Dad!’ ‘Steve!’ Mum and I said in unison. My middle name is Uhura. What can I say? Dad is a Star Trek fan. Not the Next Generation, and definitely not the films, just the original series which … Never mind. It’s too boring.

  ‘Look, darling, if you want you can call yourself Lola,’ Mum said quickly. ‘Just for this year. But you can’t change it forever, you know.’

  I wanted to tell her it was forever – but something stopped me. Maybe it was the sight of the new lines around Mum’s eyes despite all the organic skin cream she bought, or the fact that Dad’s fingers were always drumming nervously these days, when he wasn’t talking to Siri.

  They didn’t have the option of moving to Paris, or changing their names. My parents weren’t international people of mystery; they were a worried-looking PR exec and IT consultant. Although, my dad had recently made a lot of money from an app – hence they were able to afford Paris.

  A lump was growing in my throat as I thought how much I was going to miss them. And how ashamed I was that I had done this to them.

  I looked around my room, crammed with the junk of years: all my books, from Babysitter’s Club to Jane Austen, my ancient Keep Calm poster, my bean bag collapsing in front of my laptop and Flossie, my pink flamingo light. It was going to take a while to clear it all out for Lenny, but I would do it. I’d erase every trace of myself and their lives would be a whole lot easier.

  Chapter Three

  By now, I’m sure you’re wondering what it was, exactly, that I did. Don’t worry. This isn’t going to be one of those times where you wait until you’re 90% through and then find out I stole a traffic cone or something. I will tell you, and soon. But here’s what I didn’t do.

  1. It was nothing sexual (I wish. The closest I’ve come to sending a sexy picture was when I had to email the dermatologist a picture of my mole.)

  2. I didn’t kill a lion.

  3. Or put a cat in a bin.

  4. I didn’t hurt anyone. At least not physically.

  5. I didn’t break any laws.

  6. I just made a stupid mistake.

  And now I was paying for it. Every day I regretted it; I feel horrible and worthless and a pathetic excuse of a person. I wished I was anybody but me. But maybe that wish was about to come true.

  Chapter Four

  As the taxi slid along the Parisian boulevards, I examined my hair in the mirror app on my phone. I’d cut it in a bob and dyed it peroxide pinky-grey. It was way more edgy than anything I’d previously attempted and I really wasn’t sure if I could pull it off. I looked like an old lady with really good skin.

  ‘It looks fine, love,’ Mum said, beside me.

  She’d been really nice about my hair – saying I’d done a good job on it except for the very back, and taking me to her hairdresser’s to sort it out. Dad said, ‘So … you’ve changed your hair.’ Lenny just said, ‘Vletu’ – which meant ‘Freaky’ in Delilish.

  I didn’t care. My main aim was to look different from that photo. The one all the articles had used, the one that came up in Google searches, where my long dark hair was flipped over one shoulder and I was smiling that awful smile. My heart started to race again at the thought of it. It’s OK, I told myself. That wasn’t me. I’m Lola Maxwell.

  ‘I think we’re here,’ Mum said. ‘Rue Bonaparte.’

  Of course my new school was on rue Bonaparte. Rue Baguette or rue Sacré Bleu would be too much of a cliché.

  ‘Yes, this is it,’ said the driver. He spoke excellent English – as did the people in our hotel and in the restaurant last night. At this rate, it would be easier to learn Tagalog.

  Like everything in Paris, the Jean Monnet International School was beautiful. With its high stone walls, and array of flags flying outside, it looked more like a museum or an embassy than a school. Kids of all ages were standing outside chatting in groups. Most of them were in jeans and jumpers, like me, but somehow theirs seemed so much more stylish. My hands were suddenly very cold.

  ‘Come on, Delilah,’ Mum said, tucking her arm in mine. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Lola,’ I hissed instantly.

  ‘Really?’ Mum looked distraught.

  ‘Yes! That way I won’t slip up. I mean, I’ll get used to it.’

  A million different expressions seemed to pass across Mum’s face before she plastered on her professional smile. ‘Of course, darling,’ she said.

  We went inside, towards the glass-walled office on the left. Beyond, I got a glimpse of a courtyard, with three leafless chestnut trees rising out of pale gravel. I’d seen those trees so often on the school’s website, it was strange to see them in real life.

  A tall, dark boy was coming out of the office just as we were coming in. Seeing us, he held the door open, and stood back to let us in. But we were standing back to let him out. We all performed an awkward little dance together until he said, ‘Please! After you,’ and waved us through. While all this was happening I took a quick survey. Dimples and brilliant green eyes. Dark skin, Asian, nice smile. He was dressed like no teenage boy I’d ever seen, with a trench coat over a jumper over a buttoned-up shirt, and a leather satchel over one shoulder.

  ‘Thank you!’ said Mum. ‘I mean, merci beaucoup.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Cool ha
ir, by the way,’ he added, to me.

  ‘Thanks!’ I said, startled. Doors held open and a random compliment from a stranger? I could see why people liked Paris.

  Chapter Five

  The school secretary, Pauline, was nice and friendly: yet another French person with excellent English.

  ‘Now, if I could just have a photocopy of your passport,’ she said.

  I knew this was coming but it was still very scary, handing it over. There was every chance that she’d recognise my name. Thankfully, she barely glanced at it as she copied it and returned to my forms.

  ‘Well, Lola Maxwell, welcome to Jean Monnet! Let’s give you a quick tour.’

  Although the building must have been two hundred years old, it was state of the art, from the classrooms equipped with video-conferencing to the espresso machines. Espresso machines! It was all a bit different from my old school with its freezing prefabs, scarred parquet floors and eternal smell of lamb hotpot from the canteen.

  Pauline said, ‘Now, I will hand you over to one of our students – she’s in your year group. She’ll be your student mentor – show you your accommodation, show you around generally. Oh, here she is!’

  The new arrival didn’t so much enter the room as vault in, dressed head to toe in workout gear, blonde ponytail flying.

  ‘Hey!!!’ she said, or rather sang in an American accent, brown eyes shining. ‘How are you? It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Fletcher!!’

  ‘Hi. I’m Lola.’

  ‘Lola! Welcome! So how do you like Paris?’

  I gave her a world-weary smile. ‘Oh, you know. It’s a bit of a dump, isn’t it?’

  A look of total bafflement crossed her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, feeling bad. ‘I was just joking. Paris is beautiful.’ People often didn’t get my jokes; I was too deadpan, apparently. Or maybe they just weren’t any good.

  ‘That’s funny!’ I thought Fletcher couldn’t smile any harder, but I was wrong. ‘OK. Let’s show you your room!’